Just a Dash of Christmas
by Nohbdy Knows
Summary: Some Tumblr Prompts -Unashamedly Johnlock Christmas Time Fluff -One Shots
1. Just a Touch Too Short

Just a touch too short

Not for the first time, John wished he was just a little bit taller. And that they'd stop putting the cheapest strand of multicolored lights on the top shelf. He tilted he head back trying to guess if he threw something if he could knock down the light box. However, there were other people around and that would make quite the commotion. Which he decidedly did not want to cause.

Why exactly his sister had sent him out to pick up her Christmas lights as beyond him. He wanted to sit in his sorry excuse for a flat and zone out to piss poor television for several hours.

He knew his best bet was probably to ask someone. Preferably a tall someone. He looked around. There was a young mother with her two kids and aisle down, but they were all shorter than he was. There was an elderly man with a walker, also no helpful. His eyes settled on a man who was currently testing a drill on some mystery metal he appeared to have brought into the hardware store.

He was tall. John noted the manic look in his eyes and the drill, and possibly crazy. Noting he was already late, John made his way over to the tall man with a mess of curly dark hair and blue great coat.

"Ah…excuse me…" John asked, standing a reasonable distance from the drill.

The man gave no inclination of having hear or seen John and was intensely focused on the drilling.

"Excuse me!" John repeated a bit louder, with half a step closer. Nothing.

"EXCUSE-" the drill cut off "..me."

"In your opinion, could I use this drill on bone? It's worked fairly well on cast iron, but would the bone splinter?" The man made eye contact with John, who fond himself taken aback by both the question and the ice blue silver of his eyes.

"I…?" John stammered.

"Never mind. If you're going to be useless, much like most physicians…" The man trailed off and set the drill down, turning as if to walk away.

"Wait!" John stepped alongside the man, "How'd you know I was a doctor?"

"An army doctor. And it's quite obvious."

"Obvious?"

"Yes," the man replied and walked over to where John had been looking at lights before. He plucked down the package of cheap multi colored lights and handed them to John, who had followed closely.

"Almost as obvious as why you came to speak to me in the first place."

John gaped at the man.

"Now doctor about the drill?"

John blinked rapidly, "I…imagine it would do fine, on the basis that you already used it to drill a hole in iron."

"Excellent."

The tall strange smiled widely and turned to leave.

"Hold on a minute," John said following behind him, "How'd you know about me being an army doctor?"

"The same way I know you looking for residence in the city."

John blinked expectantly.

The man sighed.

"You're tan, but not above the wrists. Time spent abroad but not sunbathing. When walking, you use a cane, evidently wounded, but not your leg, because when you stand you don't favor the leg, and hold yourself at military attention. Proving your limp is at least partially psychosomatic. When you approached, you kept a reasonable distance, as if I was a patient with psychiatric history, clearly because I was holding a drill. Yet, you spoke to me with obvious concern and gentleness. You are looking for residence because as a returnee from war, you are only provided with a small flat and pension for six months."

John's eyes widened, "That was amazing!"

The man leaned back, brow crinkled, "That's not what people usually say."

"What do people usually say?"

"Piss off."

John chuckles and the man can't help but smile.

"How did you know I wanted the lights?"

A faint blush tinged the man's face but dissipated quickly, "I noticed you staring up at them. Scowling."

John laughed again, "Who are you?"

The man didn't reply to that but said, "I play violin at all hours and conduct experiments regularly."

"I'm sorry," John asked, "what?"

"Potential flat mates should know the worst about each other."

"We've only just met?" John was confused, but a small smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "I don't even know your name."

The man in the coat grinned.

John stopped at the checkout line as the man turned around to face him, "The name is Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221B Baker Street. Afternoon."

Then the surreptitious fool winked and sauntered out the door with a swirl of his coat.

John looked at the lights in his hand and grinned.


	2. Just a Little Late

Just a little late

John jogs down the street, hoping to find an open shop. Unfortunately all the shops are closed, as they ought to be on Christmas Eve. Which is a real pisser because he can't believe he forgot to get a gift for Harry. All he has in the flat is unsuitable for any gift, unless he wants to encourage a bout of drinking with some of Sherlock's scotch. Or infect Harry with whatever Sherlock is growing on the cheese in the fridge.

Both of which are not options. So he'd left Sherlock to sulk on the couch while he left to find some kind of present for his sister. He sighs, the cold is burning the tops of his ears and now he has no idea where to go.

Harry unexpectedly wanted to meet tomorrow and John hoped she'd forgive his lapse in memory due to the unusual nature of their meeting for Christmas. But probably not. He wrapped his coat tighter around his waist. The wind was bitterly cold. Oddly the streets were quiet, nearly empty.

John sat down on a bench, no desire to so soon return to his sulking flat mate, who hadn't moved from the sofa on the principle that the sentiment of Holiday's was a waste of time.

Which is why when he was joined by said enigmatic flat mate he was a bit surprised.

"What are you doing out? Though it'd be days before you put on trousers and left the flat."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"I got bored."

"Of course you did."

"Have you realized all the shops are closed yet?"

"I'm not an idiot."

"HMMmm…" Sherlock pulled a face that suggested that was exactly what he thought of John. But the faint almost smile at the end was contrary.

They sat in silence for a bit, Sherlock shifting in agitation the longer John ignored his presence.

"Jawnn… what are we doing now…"

"Sitting." John was dead pan, but his eyes bespoke amusement.

"What are we going to then?" Sherlock grumbled.

"Well, I was going to walk around. Look at the lights." John decided this sounded like a more pleasant plan than listening to Sherlock complain all night. The detective looked a bit put out and John quickly added,

"You can come if you like. If lights aren't too "sentimental" for you."

John thoroughly expected Sherlock to want to go back to the flat and start some mad experiment, burning Mrs. Hudson's doilies again.

"Okay." Sherlock stood, expectantly waiting for John to lead the way. John tilted his head. Maybe Sherlock Holmes was human after all, not wanting to be alone on Christmas Eve.

They walked down the sidewalk, admiring the city lit up and quiet.

The only person they run into is an older woman who stopped near them saying,

"Oh, such a lovely couple out for a Christmas stroll! Merry Christmas!"

John froze, why did everyone always assume they were a couple? Sherlock halted at his elbow, and he wondered if perhaps it was the proximity thing. But they weren't… And in John's silence Sherlock never corrected her, or anyone for that matter. And for once, in the spirit of Christmas, John simply smiled and kept walking. Sherlock, he could tell, was looking at him closely, asking a million silent questions about John's odd behavioral pattern. For whatever reason, he kept quiet, about John's lack of correction and his own. And after that, if they walked a little too close, neither chose to comment or move away.

The lights of Christmas illuminate all sorts of things.


	3. Just a Book

Just a book

Sherlock was not one to typically engage in the sentimental percolative of gift giving. However he made a singular exception for his mother. Who would berate him repeatedly if he did not come to Christmas with something for her, his father and elder brother. As ever he would purchase a cake for Fatcroft. And receive glares around the table for this action. No matter, it never ceased to light his face with a smile.

For his father, he almost always purchased one of those ridiculous bow ties he insisted on wearing. Predictable and easy. His mother, on the other hand, was not. She wasn't the type to want blankets and scarves and typical mother gifts. Sherlock had taken to gifting her with books. Anything on the subjects of math, science, or tales involving dragons was preferred and he had recently become aware of a book, through google, about two hours ago, that contained all three. Therefore, it made the most sense to purchase the thing and be done with the ridiculous endeavor that was Christmas shopping.

He entered the quiet little bookstore, the chiming of belles alerting Albert that someone entered. Albert waved, as he did every Christmas and Sherlock ignored him. The store was unusually crowded and Sherlock skirted his way around the other patrons to the fantasy section. Only one other customer was there, scanning the shelves. A short blonde man in an oatmeal jumper. Dull.

Sherlock scanned the surnames looking for an O'Laolohan. He didn't realize he was now almost shoulder to shoulder with the other man in the store. Neither realized that they were both reaching for the same book and grasped each other's hands instead of the intended title.

Sherlock couldn't remember the last time he'd held someone'd hand, and while the man's hand was calloused, it was also warm and slightly smaller than his own. Part of him wanted to jerk out of the grasp immediately, another never wanted to let go. Surprisingly the other man seemed to be having a similar struggle as the both just stared at their interlocked hands.

"Sorry," said the blond man, a deep red creeping up under his collar. Sherlock watched the progression of color and wondered curiously how far it traversed below the line of his shirt.

And why was he thinking that? Uhg. The sentiment of Christmas must really be getting to his head. He was fairly sure his own cheeks would be stained pink. If he could see them.

Sherlock nodded and they both looked at the book.

"So…" The blond man said reaching in his pocket for a coin, "flip for it?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "No."

"No?" The man raised an eyebrow. Normally Sherlock wouldn't elaborate, but this entire situation was throwing him. He could still feel the dry warmth of the man's palm in his own.

"It's for my mother. She has very specific tastes." He noted the book still lay on the shelf, neither man having made a move to grab it.

"Girlfriend," the man said holding up a scrap of yellow paper, "It's on the list."

Why did his heart sink at the word girlfriend coming from this man's lips? He didn't know the man. Sure he wasn't bad looking, but Sherlock's mind did not work on that alone. No. It ran on deductions. And this unassuming man, he deduced to be an army doctor. Strong, tired, caring, and Sherlock couldn't find a fault. Oh, this was not good. This would not do. He had to make this man hate him. Walking away would be much easier after that, and making people hate him was somewhat of a specialty of his.

"Your girlfriend's cheating on you, you don't need to get her a gift, she plans on breaking up with you anyway. And your limp is psychosomatic." Sherlock didn't know why he included the part about the limp. Probably the creeping sentimentality wanting to help the man, even as he hurt him.

The man stared in shock.

"How…?"

"If you can't for a coherent sentence I don't see how you're worth the time." Sherlock turned and started to walk away, not realizing he hadn't even grabbed the book, until he felt a tap on his arm. The man held the book out to him.

"I…had my suspicions, but how did you know?"

Sherlock took the book with a scowl.

"The paper she gave you. Smells of cologne, not the kind you're wearing. On the back of the paper there is a grocery list. Obviously not in your or her handwriting on the front of the list. And she asked for probably the least romantic gift possible."

John half smiled in awe, "Incredible."

Sherlock stiffened. A voice in the back of his head was very very pleased at the praise. And the heart that most people though he lacked was in surefire danger. Not only did his deductions not shut down the man, they were impressive?

They stood together in line in silence, John had other books he picked out. He interrupted Sherlock's musings,

"I'm John Watson by the way."

"Sherlock Holmes."

John nodded but didn't remark on the unusual name. Did he smile? Sherlock wasn't quite sure. He really hoped he wasn't expected to engage in small talk now.

"Guess I don't have any plans for Christmas now." John sighed and fiddled with the books in his hands. Sherlock guessed the statement was more a personal reflection and probably not necessitating a response from him, so he ignored it. Or he intended to until an idea sprang up in his mind. One that would probably please his mother and piss off Mycroft in one fell swoop. One that the little much neglected emotional corner of his brain picked up on and refused to drop.

"You could spend Christmas with me." Sherlock wanted to punch himself. Pathetic and probably creepy. That's what he would assume anyway. "It's just dinner with family but…" Oh God he really needed to stop talking. People wondered why he didn't do emotions. John was probably going to…

Stare at him like he'd grown a second head. Well, better than a fist to the face.

"You… don't even know me." John's face was a jumble of emotion.

"I knew your girlfriend was cheating by her list to you. I could list off a dozen things about you. Army doctor, was it Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"You…" John looked less baffled somehow with this revelation, "Afghanistan." Sherlock nodded. They shuffled forwards in line.

"Are you asking me out?" John asked suddenly after a few beats of silence. Sherlock froze. Was he? He should deny it, he was married to the work after all. He didn't do relationships. But if he did…he hadn't found an ideal candidate ever. Hadn't found a candidate in years. Much ignored parts of him pleaded with his rational against letting anyone in, against the dangerous disadvantage of caring, against the chemical defect of feeling. He wanted…he… John was staring at him.

"I'll go."

 **A/N: Hello! Uh, just to reply to the comment, I have no idea how many of these I'll do. I have a few more written out, but I don't know how many ultimately I will write. Thanks for reading!**


	4. Just Some Flour

Just some Flour

John was head to toe covered in flour. For once the complete and utter disaster in the kitchen of 221 B had nothing to do with Sherlock. Yes, there was still a bit of acid simmering on one of the back counters, but the majority of the mess was definitely John's fault.

So when Sherlock walked into the flat, he rounded the corner to a sting of curses coming from a ghost.

"John?"

"This bloody PISSING mix! Why does it call for EGGS!" John threw an egg, already half broken across the kitchen catching Sherlock's arm as he entered the room.

"John?"

"Oh." John stopped his rant and faced Sherlock, his face lit with surprise.

"What…are you trying to cook?" Sherlock enquired.

John looked down sheepishly at the floor covered in more baking ingredients than the bowl.

"Yeah, uh….trying being the key word there." John set down the carton of eggs he had been holding.

"…What did you do with my refluxing apparatus?" John pointed to the back counter, where thankfully the Thionyl Chloride mixture was still refluxing, and the system was still closed.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows at John who smiled weakly.

"So…ah…does this mean you clean up after me for once?" John teased.

"Not a chance." Sherlock rolled his eyes. He scanned the scraps of paper, discovering John had been trying to make ginger snaps.

"Ginger snaps John? Really?"

"I… am supposed to bring some sweet into the clinic, Holiday "party" or some nonsense. But…I haven't exactly baked in years."

Sherlock rolled up his shirt sleeves, "Well. Let's bake."

"Uhm…" John looked affronted as Sherlock picked up the bowl and began adding things, he moved with a simple grace, and managed make any sort of mess.

"Sherlock…?"

"Don't act surprised John. Baking is simply Chemistry of the simplest and most boring variety." Sherlock found the spatula, partially wedged under the fridge somehow. He mixed the dough and handed the bowl to John, fiddling with the oven.

"Why…..? What….?" John gaped.

"As soon as you and your ridiculous attempt at baking are out of the kitchen, the sooner I can go back to my experiment. I trust you can roll the dough?"

John narrowed his eyes, "You git. Of course I can roll dough."

Compatibly they rolled some of the dough and began baking.

"You many want to wash up a bit." Sherlock noted, looking at John's flour encrusted appearance. John narrowed his eyes.

Sherlock looked far too clean in his white button down, marred only by the egg John had thrown earlier. So John did what anyone would do. Wiped off his own face with his hand. Then smudged flour over one of those smug cheek bones.

"John!"

John grinned impishly.

Mrs. Hudson was surprised to smell baking ginger bread when she arrived home. Curiously she made her way upstairs where the door to the boys apartment was left a jar.

She heard a thud and a few yells. Followed by rancorous laughter.

And she found John and Sherlock on the floor both full of various mixes, flour, sugar, possibly baking soda. John had Sherlock pinned underneath him in the mess on the floor, but Sherlock had managed to grab a handful of… something from the floor and rubbed it through John's hair.

Mrs. Hudson giggled and they sprang apart.

"Mrs. Hudson!" They exclaimed and they looked at each other and began laughing again.

She loved her boys, if only, she thought they could see how much they loved each other.


End file.
